Oblivion
by Nola Swan
Summary: 2557. The Master Chief encounters an enemy he never saw coming—the UNSC. With the help of an unlikely ally hiding her own dark secrets, he must unravel a web of deceit and fight the ONI's latest project: the successors to the Spartans. A tale of deception and retribution, John breaks the chain.
1. Fire Escape

Chapter 1  
"Fire Escape"

"_All war is deception." — Sun Tzu_

**UNSC **_**Infinity**_**, 2557**

"Wake up, John."

He was floating in a sea of black, body weightless and mind heavy. Her voice cut through the howling in his ears like the deep bass of the waves rolling in. One long roar after another, and he could hear nothing else. Feel nothing. Spartans never die, but he thought it might be like this—peaceful and easy after a lifetime fighting. Even if it were impossible, it made sense she would guide him there when it all ended.

"John… Wake up. Come on."

He felt heavier like gravity took hold, the bottom dropped, and his limbs were leaden as he was dragged under. The howling was louder, shorter, distressed. Something bright stabbed his eyes.

"Wake up dammit!"

It began in the center of his forehead, right between his eyes shuddering as they searched the darkness of his black lids: his pulse. It strengthened with each second, and he hung onto that steady drum and let it guide him out of the pit. Pain permeated him and settled at its heaviest in his throbbing head. He groaned, and the sound rattling through his chest and throat told him he was alive. Spartans never die. The light was sharp as his combat knife when he blinked his eyes open. Blurry shades of grey and black and flashes of red swirled around him, and in the eye of the storm, only one shape was unmoving.

"That's right! Get up, John!"

He blinked again to clear his eyes of the dizziness, gritted his teeth, and growled like a wounded animal as he forced his body to respond and tried to sit up. In front of him the image formed: black hair and a woman's face.

"Cortana?" Her name was gravel to his dry throat, and he finally succeeded in sitting up and facing her. The blood fell, emptying enough space in his throbbing head for the faintness to return. He sucked in a gust of air and concentrated on the fuzzy image of her face.

"What?"

Her voice was low and raspy with anxiety, a tone he didn't recognize, and he fought to gain his bearings. At last his gaze sharpened, and the blurry lines came into focus. Pieces of dark brown hair fell limp to her cheek while the rest was pulled in a hasty ponytail. Her skin was naturally olive complected but pale like she hadn't seen the sun in months. Freckles scattered across her face, her tense brow hooded over small hazel eyes, and her mouth was turned down in a frown.

She looked away from him to check over her shoulder anxiously and ordered, "Get up. We have to hurry. They'll be here any second."

His attention strayed beyond the stranger squatted beside him to their surroundings as he fit the pieces together. The sparse contents, the machines littered about, the examination table… _Medical division_, he understood, but the dim lighting signaled they had reverted to emergency power. He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and pushed away that ache in his head so he could think clearly. Last he remembered was his routine physical and psychological assessment. Now an alarm was blaring and red lights were flashing overhead. _Infinity _was under attack. The Covenant? The Didact? Had he failed?

He looked from the room to the stranger still watching him. Their gazes locked briefly, his searching for answers and hers brimming with replies, but she only offered a stern instruction, "Get up. I can't carry you."

John's body was heavy and numb, slow to respond and lax of its usual athleticism so that he felt like a rusted machine grappling to get the joints moving. Her hands gripped his side, she wedged her shoulder beneath his arm, and together they pushed. She groaned her aggravation for his weight and the difficulty of managing his brawn, but even numb, his body responded and forced him to his feet. His arm was dead weight over her shoulders, the ship jostled, and her knee buckled and sent her stumbling back into the wall with a chirp of protest. John caught himself with his palm on the wall and recognized in his delayed mind her small stature next to him now that they were standing. She was human and wearing a Marine's uniform. She glanced at him from beneath her knotted brow, looking at once frustrated and relieved. John was similarly aggravated, but he was regaining control and shucking off that paralyzed feeling more out of stubborn will power than anything. He was waking up.

"You've been drugged," she explained as the first answer to one of his unvoiced questions, and she held still to his side in case he might lose control and as if she had the strength to stave off 400 pounds of biologically engineered muscle. "We don't have time to wait for the effects to wear off. You have to push through it."

"I'm fine," he countered in a clipped tone and pushed away from the wall to stand before her with his spine straight and shoulders squared. It felt like the ground was swaying and rocking, like a ship pitching on the waves, and a sea of black waited to catch and consume him. A cold sweat broke across his brow, but he held perfectly steady.

She watched him for a moment, looking hesitant before her impatience overcame her and she nodded. "Good. We're going to make a run for the launch deck."

"I need my armor."

"There's no time!" she snapped back, and her voice rose with a sudden rush of aggravation. Any patience had burned away leaving her face flush and eyes flaming. "Listen to me. We have to go! We have to get off the ship!"

His mouth parted to respond when the gears on their right retracted loudly. The door began to rise, and without hesitation, she charged past him and slid for a Battle Rifle on the floor. Rather than turning it on him, she pointed at the doorway and shot before the door even finished rising. A Spartan-IV recoiled, his shield flaring as it dispersed the blast and weakened, and she shot again but missed when the same Spartan-IV ducked behind the cover of the doorway. Three red sights cut through the dimness, two landing on her and the last one on John whose gaze reeled to follow the action. Everything was too sharp. His head was throbbing, the dull ache pulsing behind his eyes like it might tear through his skull, but he ignored it and forced himself to focus on the back of his enemy's head. She was the intruder.

Glancing over her shoulder, her face was paler than before, and she warned, "Duck!"

Time seemed to lag. The red sights left her, all three pointed at John's chest, and he dropped to his knees, crouching as he heard the shots ring out in the corridor. He felt too slow. One flew past his neck, a few inches from piercing his helmetless face, and the doorway burst with the explosion of a grenade the woman had thrown. The floor shuddered, and the space was awash with the smell of sweet, hot metal and the dirt taste of gunpowder. The flashing alarm echoed amid the lingering haze being cleared by the ship's ventilation system, and the woman hurried through its brief cover to John's side. This time her rifle was pointed at him more defensively than as a threat.

Searching his vacant expression, she muttered, "Let's keep moving."

John didn't respond, and they heard a group of Marines running toward the explosion. Clenching her jaw and cursing under her breath, she turned and led them through the back door where she checked each direction to be sure it was clear. She tilted her head for him to follow, and they started toward one end of the adjoining hallway and paused at the door.

"What's going on?" he asked, tone unapologetically neutral though lowered, and he glanced at her weapon and trusted his reflexes would be fast enough to take her down. The brief skirmish only succeeded in blurring the line between his friends and foes and confusing his already dizzy mind. He hadn't yet decided in which category she fell considering what her uniform told him: it was too large for her. The adrenaline was pumping through him and washing away the remnants of numbness lingering in his muscles and bones. The last effects made him feel lethargic and gave him a chainsaw migraine, but that could be easily managed. More concerning was his current predicament, and he had the sense any answer she gave him wouldn't clear the muddy water.

"UNSC forces," she answered and glimpsed back at him as if to be sure he was still following her lead. When their gazes met, her lips flattened reluctantly before she admitted, "They're coming for you."

A frown settled into the wrinkles in his brow, and he searched for the tail end of a lie. Nothing. "Why?" he asked quietly and tried to rationalize what he had seen and what she was telling him. _The Didact_… It had been able to control the Covenant and Prometheans within seconds, but this thought only spawned more questions. He had failed; Cortana had died for nothing… But how? Why would he be the target? Vengeance?

Readjusting her grip on her weapon, she seemed to grapple momentarily with the answer he needed but avoided it. "They have tranquilizer rounds and high charge tasers… They want you alive. If we make it to the launch deck, I'll explain everything."

"I need my armor," he repeated, and his body was awash with determination until even his features settled into a stony expression of resolve. He couldn't fight the Didact out of uniform. He wouldn't be strong enough and now without Cortana… He shook his head as if to clear it of that thought, but he couldn't swallow down the acidic mouthful of guilt the memory brought. They were supposed to protect each other, and when the end came, they would meet Death together—like old friends.

"John!" she snapped and seized his attention in one swoop so that his blue eyes spun to focus on her. Holding his gaze, she seemed to be searching for something, maybe an explanation for his wandering mind, and spelled out stiffly, "In a few minutes, they're going to have this deck and the whole ship on lockdown. We only have one shot at getting out of here."

"Go."

He'd never asked for her help. He didn't even know who she really was, why she was here, or what her motivation was for rescuing him. John glanced about them and oriented himself. They were still on the SPARTAN-IV Training Deck and close to the armor station. Depending on the number of Marines and Spartans flooding the corridor, he could reach it within minutes, and if he were lucky, some scientist would be near to apply his armor. He thought of the Didact again. How many were under its control?

"You can't help anyone if you're captured!" she snarled sharply like a dog baring its teeth only to bow her head and compose herself. She speared him with her fierce gaze again from beneath her brow. "You don't have any friends, John. Not anymore. Not here. We have to go."

Cortana would be able to scan the systems, locate the threat, and brief him on the situation, and the sensation of blindness confronted him. He wasn't accustomed to running into battle without foresight, and yet his closest ally had died and left him alone. _You started off alone_, he reminded himself and mistakenly glanced at this stranger who he had every reason to shoot and leave. Something in her eyes was so haggard and desperate, but he looked away from them before grabbing her by the scruff of her shirt and yanking her back. The door beside them opened as she fell, and he stole her rifle from her hands while stepping forward and aiming for the Marine who dared to sneak up on them. His sights focused on the man's head half-visible beneath his helmet and fell as he pulled the trigger, hitting the soldier at his shoulder in the slender gap between his chest plating and shoulder guard. The next was afforded the same clemency and the one behind him as well so swift the shots were nearly indecipherable. It wouldn't kill them, but it would slow them down. John ducked behind the cover of the threshold while retaliation shots rang out, but the Marines couldn't reach them.

"Launch deck's two floors up," he said and mentally tallied how many bullets had been used. He was thinking faster, pushing through the persistent throbbing, and he could feel himself regaining control.

Her face fell warily at his unannounced change, and she glanced at the Battle Rifle in his hands. Her misgivings settled into the frown on her face, but she said nothing and pulled out a Magnum from the holster at her thigh. John took off the opposite direction, crouching slightly, grasping the rifle in both hands, and searched ahead of them for any movement.

She started after him and hurried to match his pace while she muttered, "Elevators are out. We'll have to take the stairs."

He had assumed as much. It was all standard procedure for containing and neutralizing any threat aboard a vessel, and they'd already wasted valuable time with nothing to show for it. He had been prepared for a routine evaluation in a spare uniform, not his armor. They always called him in to assess his physical and mental health after each mission so that they could chart his progress and watch for any signs of diminished capacity. Even machines grow old. He wasn't prepared for battle, but then, that was the best time to strike.

The entry to the stairs was ahead on their left, but John ducked behind the cover of a nearby corridor with the woman at his heels as they heard sounds echoing down the hall. Footsteps. Too many to decipher, and the howling of the alarm overheard drowned out the noise in his ears. By the tone and echo pattern that he could decipher, he estimated their location on the map in his head and quickly strung together the best tactic to avoid combat. These were UNSC fighters—his brothers in arms, members of a much larger team. When he was young and pitted in a boxing ring with ODSTs, he only had three ways of classifying others: those he obeyed, those he helped, and those he killed. Now, years of fighting had taught him that the lines were never so perfectly drawn. He would defend himself and take out eminent threats, but if possible, he didn't want to cause them harm. They were just pawns in the Didact's game, and he would find a way to end it—somehow.

His gaze dropped, allowing him to catch the woman from the corner of his eyes, but neither his face nor stance gave any indication as to his thoughts on her. His unannounced ally had taken a bolder approach in the brief time he had been beside her, and he couldn't waste valuable time reigning in her bravado. They would reach the launch deck like ghosts. It was their best option. It was their only option.

He began to motion to explain his plan but paused, wondering if she would know standard military hand signals. The Marine uniform was a sham. It would be best if he shook her, but for now, he dealt with her. Under his breath he explained, "We do not engage unless necessary. We make for the stairs on my mark."

His gaze was still lowered so that he caught the stiff nod she offered him, and he lengthened his neck to better hear the sounds of the soldiers. They had been heading to the main hall of the medical wing, no doubt called to the room where John had been, but now they switched directions and returned back where they had come from—faster. Their orders had changed. They were on to them.

"Mark," he snapped, and both abandoned their cover into the empty hall and hurried with light steps to the stairs where John stepped in to clear the first level of the stairwell, paused on the landing, and looked up to the next floor. "Clear."

The woman covered him from behind, relying on her sight where John had been able to use his hearing, and she recoiled as a bullet sprung past her face and punctured the metal beside her. She returned two shots and heard one deflect off the corner and the other find its mark. She hurried up the stairs with a dry warning, "They found us."

Casper flew out his tactical window.

John bounded up the stairs two at a time to reach the next level where he stepped aside to cover the door while she rushed past him, Magnum in hand and pointed steadily ahead of her. She took the next landing and checked to be sure no one was waiting for them. John followed after her and watched their backs where the soldiers were clearing the stairs after them. They would be funneled into a tight space. It was the perfect set up for a grenade, but he had none and wouldn't have tossed it if he did. Even if his stealth plan had failed, he would stick to his guns—or avoid them, rather.

"Clear," she said, watching the doorway and down one direction of the adjoining hall, while John stepped out and pointed his rifle the opposite direction.

It was empty, but not for long if the soldiers behind them had anything to say about it. The launch pad was on this deck, and he knew the _Infinity_ was stocked with everything from Falcons to Longswords. Even if they made it, how far would they get before the UNSC caught up to them or the Didact for that matter? His mission was to reach the launch pad and leave the ship. He would decide what followed after that.

"This way, Chief," she muttered and stepped past him to take the lead again.

He assumed she liked to be in charge, and for now he could hang back and cover their exit. The UNSC soldiers were stalled clearing the stairwell as they had and were careful not to rush up after them, but still, the hunt would continue sooner rather than later.

They paused at the entrance to the launch area where she keyed in the code. The gears retracted with a hiss of changing pressure, and the door lifted while she crouched near the corner and gazed down the short corridor. It was only occupied by the flashing lights and persistent howl of the alarm, and John took a step forward. All at once she lifted her fist, and he froze, watching her acutely to see what she had discovered.

A lone soldier strode along the other end of the corridor on patrol of the launch deck, paused just beyond her sights, and answered a call on his COM. She lifted one finger to signal what she saw, but she couldn't decipher his hushed words. When she heard his footfalls on the metal their direction, she understood, lifted her Magnum, and prepared to engage. The moment he was near enough for her to have a clear shot, her view was impended by John's burly body bounding through the threshold. He caught the nozzle of the man's weapon and tore it aside where the bullet missed his chest and screeched into the metal behind him, and immediately, his elbow swiped into the man's exposed chin and sent him recoiling with a short groan of pain. There was a snap. His jaw broke. He fell unconscious onto the floor, and the woman stepped up beside John to see the soldier crumpled like a ragdoll.

"You know for a Spartan," she said softly and watched the blood trailing from the man's mouth and pooling on the metal floor, "I didn't expect you to be such a hippie."

Her lips edged into a sarcastic smirk, both ironic and humorless, but John ignored her. She tucked her Magnum back into its holster and policed the soldier's MA6 and two packs of ammo.

Another of his silent questions had been answered by this short encounter: she had some sort of military training.

The door closed behind them. If they were lucky, the Marines following them would search each direction to track them though the obvious target was the launch deck. John was usually lucky, but he was counting his teeth today. Nothing was going right. He needed to think. He needed to breathe. Time wasn't often something he could afford. The flashing lights and howl of the alarm were bullets to his brain for the way they attacked his throbbing head. He'd seen James help take down two Hunters with half his left arm burned off. This was nothing.

They continued through another door; the following would open to the launch station. Directly ahead of them would be the controls which they would need to access to prep whichever spacecraft they decided to commandeer, but undoubtedly it would be guarded given they were aware of John and the woman's movements and their end goal. If they opened the door now, they would be charging blind into a possible ambush. They were outnumbered and out matched. The usual tactics Déjà had taught him wouldn't apply. They needed something unexpected to give them the edge. Evidently his new ally had already thought of this.

"Don't sweat," she said and pushed back the cuff on her shirt to reveal a detachable timer from some explosive attached to her wrist. "6 seconds, and we'll be home free—hopefully."

A 'V' formed between his brows as he briefly assessed her face and tone for some clue as to her master plan, but her poker face was in effect. Only her final word lingered and alerted him it was a risky maneuver. He braced himself, taking a better handle of his weapon in preparation, and watched the digital numbers steadily count backward.

_3…_

He thought of the Marines who had been on their tail and glanced toward the door they had just entered. If her plan failed, they'd be sitting ducks stuck between the two forces.

_2…_

"Hold on, John," she warned and placed a hand against the wall to steel herself.

He similarly found a hold and saw the timer flicker to _1_—

—nothing happened.

The woman frowned and growled out, "Shit," under her breath. They were on their own with no better plan than to charge into the adjoining room with guns blazing. It was amateur. He might have made such a mistake at six years old when Dr. Halsey found him, but Déjà's first lessons were strategy and tactics.

He began to stand, but she commanded, "Wait!"

He halted, half-standing from his crouched position, looked to her, and watched how the thin strands of hair hanging in her face shivered with every short exhale. She gritted her teeth in momentary frustration. It had failed. They needed to move on.

Then it triggered all at once, but he recognized it more as a shudder in the floor like mild turbulence on a plane. A fleeting smile teased her features, and she pounced up to her feet. John followed suit, and soon the intercom hissed to life. He recognized Captain Thomas Lasky's voice:

"_All hands brace for emergency thruster maneuver._"

The ship lurched as the emergency thrusters immediately kicked in. The woman tumbled forward into the door in front of them while John's hand snapped out and caught him. She punched in the codes without comment, oblivious to his hard stare centered on her. She'd taken out one of _Infinity_'s engines. They were in orbit around Earth nearing the space dock. This close Earth's gravity could take hold, suck them into the atmosphere, burn up the metal hull, send them spiraling toward the surface, and kill hundreds of thousands—maybe _millions _of innocent people.

John learned something else about his abettor: she was crazy.

The door jerked open but stopped halfway, signaling the ship had been placed on full emergency lockdown. Override codes would be needed to access doors and computers. It wouldn't be impossible to hack into the system. Worse, it would be time consuming, and time was all that stood between them and the 6,000 Marines aboard the _Infinity_. As if unconcerned with how this affected their escape plan, she ducked beneath the edge, and shots rang out as John followed after her, practically doubling over himself to squeeze through the small space. The seven Marines guarding the launch station hadn't had the time to brace themselves and were scattered across the floor in all variety of positions. They hadn't expected the thrusters to kick in, and they certainly didn't think the culprit behind this explosive Houdini act would charge at them next. They tried to jump to their feet or roll out of the line of fire.

Three were hit: one was killed instantly, and the other two had been wounded and were taking cover. The woman dove out of the return gunfire and hid behind a few stacked crates. She had drawn their attention, and bullets pelted the crates even after she disappeared from view. John took advantage of the diversion and twisted around the corner shrouding him. He peered through the rifle's sight and found his target. He fired, and the three successive shots pierced through the Marine's helmet, causing the soldier to fall back and slump dead onto the floor. Meanwhile, the woman knelt behind one of the crates while peering over the edge with her weapon in hand and covered John who stepped around the edge and forward where his shot was clear for the next soldier. Three were dead, and the other four were either wounded or stranded in an open space with no appropriate cover to hide behind. They were disposed of within minutes, but it felt three times longer to John. Every second was precious. Reinforcements would come blasting through that door at any moment. They had to hurry.

"Come on!" the woman called to him and ran toward a Pelican-D79 that had been loaded onto a launching pad. All available spacecrafts had been launched to distract the Didact while John infiltrated its core to plant the nuclear warhead. The Pelican was one of the few crafts that remained. They needed to get to the control panel to override the codes and open the air-locks, but John followed after her and assumed she had more explosives up her baggy sleeves.

Instead she circled around to the launch kiosk where she commanded, "Prep for launch," took out a data pad from a small pack at her back, and linked into the network. John left her to hack in and override the systems, and inevitably he thought of Cortana who could have the locks open within minutes. How long would it take his new accomplice? He couldn't be sure, so he hurried to the pilot's seat to power up the systems, warm the engines, check the guns, and load up the map to confirm their position and devise the best escape route with mechanical efficiency.

"We've got company," the woman warned him from outside. "I need cover!"

His tasks were completed, and he instantly abandoned his seat to pick up his Battle Rifle and return to the launching pad. The Marines had followed them and pried open the door at the opposite end of the launching station where they were advancing. Too many for John and her to take out like the others, and they were in the weaker vantage point now. He raised his rifle and shot down two Marines without hesitation while the woman crouched beside the panel and continued typing furiously at her pad.

"I'm in the system, but the ship's AI keeps blocking me!" she called out, an angry bite to her tone. The first gateway had been opened, but the successive ones were stalled much like the half-ajar door they had passed beneath to enter the room.

He tore through the first round and snapped, "Ammo!"

She promptly ripped open one of her pockets and tossed him fresh magazine which he caught and loaded so quickly it seemed like he had only paused to breathe. The Marines were scattering and taking cover, making it harder to neutralize them and sustain their returned fire. Five Spartan-IV's brought up the rear. John fell back.

"How far out?" he yelled over to the woman who didn't respond.

They couldn't be this close and fail. That wasn't an option. They needed a new plan. He glanced over his shoulder where the lock doors were still ajar and stalled. A new tactic popped into his head: one that made him look crazy and tested his luck.

"Fall back!" he commanded the woman and sustained his fire to keep the Marines distracted and the Spartans from charging.

"I'm not—"

"Fall back," he repeated without giving her the chance to disregard him, and she yanked her link from the kiosk, tucked away her data pad, and picked up her MA6 to shoot as she retreated up into the co-pilot seat of the craft.

John took the pilot's seat, checked the status of the engines and weapons, and lastly considered the tranquilizer dart sticking from his thigh courtesy of another Spartan. Frowning, he tore it out and tossed it onto the floor beneath him. He'd worry about it later. He lifted the Pelican from the launching pad and maneuvered through the narrow gap in the first air-lock.

The COM channel crackled briefly, and then she wondered from behind him, "_What's the plan, Chief?_"

The emergency air-lock was even smaller, and the roof of the Pelican scraped the top like nails on a chalkboard as they squeezed through. The paint peeled away, the metal was scratched, but the craft was in tact. The sound of bullets disappeared.

"Man the M6 cannon," he instructed and switched controls from the rail turret to the mounted cannons.

"_I always like to make an exit_," she returned dryly.

Ahead of them, the last and final air-lock was sealed tight.

"_Cannon's hot_."

John took a beat. The sound of his pulse thundering in his ears lagged behind: every repercussion was spreading the sedative through his veins. A numbness started in his feet as if he were dipping them in ice water. By contrast, his chest and head felt like they were licked by flames. His brow knotted above his blue eyes, hooding and shading them, and he forced the whole of his concentration on the last barrier between them and space.

_Focus_, he ordered himself. To her, he said, "Fire."

He could barely feel his fingers as they launched the series of turret missiles whose tails flared briefly and then trailed along as they shot straight for the air-lock. A burst of red fired after them, but it quickly overtook them and buried into the metal first, the missiles nestling and bursting after it. Their screens were momentarily blinded by the rush of smoke that lingered and lethargically dispersed into the air. The metal was warped and blackened in places but in tact.

"Again," John commanded. He wasn't sure he hit the switch. He couldn't feel it, but the missiles from the other wing fired. The laser charged past them. All met their mark, and this time the smoke didn't linger. It was sucked out into space.

Fresh alarms from inside the _Infinity_ started up to signal a breach. The emergency air-lock closed behind them. Their only option was a small shredded gap, as narrow as the last air-lock but jagged and uneven. The numbness seized his arms and thighs. He didn't have long before he lost control and fell unconscious. There was no time for him to reload and try to clean up the breach. He pushed the throttle to maximum burn.

The COM was silent as the Pelican hurdled forward, the size of a toy plane in comparison to the _Infinity. _One fraction of a miscalculation could send them crashing into the metal instead of through it. The last aircraft he'd flown, he'd deliberately wrecked and survived, but he didn't have his MJOLNIR armor to protect him this time; he also had a human co-pilot to think of.

"_I hope you know what you're doing_," her voice finally whispered over the channel.

"Hold on," John returned in an even tone, void of fear or concern, and angled the ship to match the widest part of the gash. There was no turning back. There was no stopping. Time seemed to slow when they neared the split, close enough for him to see how slim their chances of surviving, and then it jumped forward all at once as if it were squeezing through the slender gap with them. Metal upon metal screeched, louder and sharper than before, the Pelican jostled and struggled against the thin space, and John held steady to the throttle even as alarms screamed to life across his controls. One signaled the thrusters had reached their limit. He kept pushing.

They burst through the air-lock and swung back, curving alongside the _Infinity_ and dropping near enough to Earth to catch the orbit. The thrusters maxed out, but the orbit propelled them around to the dark side of the planet and away from the _Infinity_. His head was spinning. Darkness funneled around his eyes like sharks circling closer and closer. A thousand tons weighed on his chest, feeling like it might crush his ribs. He fought for his last movements.

John transferred the pilot controls to her before everything went black.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hey lovelies! I wanted to take a moment to point out, in case it's not already obvious, that this is not a strictly canon Halo fic. I'm taking the Halo universe and placing my own spin on things, and if that bothers those die-hard fans out there, then you might want to find something else more suitable to your standards. I'll add that I've read the majority of _Fall of Reach _(still working on it!), and I have played the games, so I'm using what I've drawn from those as a cornerstone. This is a story about John-117, deception, and retribution. If that interests you, enjoy xoxo


	2. Free Fall

Chapter 2  
"Free Fall"

_"Anything worth living for," said Nately, "is worth dying for."  
__"And anything worth dying for," answered the old man, "is certainly worth living for." — Catch 22_

Lieutenant Samaire Quinn buried her right fist into the seventy-kilogram bag, her left followed barely a breath later, and the blunt strikes ricocheted through the room. The swing felt off—she tested it again with a powerful series of jabs—or maybe she wasn't as strong as she remembered. Her back, arms, and chest were burning. Sweat dripped from her chin. Pieces of her dark hair curled across her temples and cheeks in random designs. She'd been space side for too long: She needed real air, real gravity, maybe even a bit of sun… Her fists recoiled naturally to cover her face, giving her a moment to breathe, but it tasted stale and felt hollow in her lungs. There was never enough air out here. Space was a convenient scapegoat to keep her from acknowledging the personal ramifications of this mission. It was both her driving force and her Achilles' heel, and now that a certain Spartan-II had skyrocketed into her view at full burn, it eclipsed everything else. This could be the beginning of a new era; this is what she needed after fourteen years of planning and waiting. There was no turning back. Food and sleep were obscured by its overarching shadow, and she could almost feel her athletic figure whittling away to something more sinewy and boney like a prepubescent boy, all angles and no meat, as she traded another night's sleep for time working her hands. She'd up her protein and vitamin intake to compensate. She exhaled shortly and struck again. Her muscles flared with protest, but her mind was elsewhere.

The bag didn't give, and Sam hesitated and assessed its static position when a familiar face bobbed around the edge—Anya Flynn, the youngest member on her team. Her short copper hair was sticking up slightly as though freshly mussed, and her large, green eyes gazed at Sam. She hadn't quite mastered her poker face, so that the look teemed with unspoken assumptions, which the lieutenant pointedly ignored. Sam had been reluctant about recruiting her. Anya was still wet behind the ears, but she was the sharpest shooter the lieutenant had seen this side of the UNSC in awhile. Her dad was an ex-military sniper and taught his baby girl to shoot straight and shoot right. That coupled with an intuitive feel behind the sights gave her uncanny precision. In the Old West, she might've given Annie Oakley a run for her money. Anya's chief shortcomings were her age and lack of combat experience, but Sam had seen what she could do in training. She was sure those skills would translate on the field in a lethal way.

"I thought you were resting," Anya commented when Sam didn't offer a salutation. The lieutenant was too absorbed in her thoughts to worry about social protocol this morning.

"Yeah, well," Sam replied breathlessly and twisted to kick the bag with a short grunt, "I changed my mind."

The lights flickered overhead, and Anya glanced up almost nervously like they might die out. Sam's focus never strayed. She'd become immune to the ticks, clicks, and groans of the old craft. It gave the vessel a bit of character like the numerous soldiers who had filed in and out of its mouth had given it a life of its own. Sam jabbed and followed with a right hook, feeling it resonate deep into her ribs.

Anya held steady to the bag for Sam's continued assault, but the lieutenant prodded between sets, "Got news?"

Her youthful features were smooth and relaxed, making her look more melancholy and reluctant than Sam knew her to be. She quietly answered, "He's awake."

Sam's feet stilled immediately though her fists remained framing her face. Her hazel eyes flicked back and forth as she processed this news, and she demanded, "Time."

"0437—give or take a minute."

He'd slept over twelve hours, but frankly, she was more surprised he wasn't in a coma. By the time she rendezvoused with her team, John's heart rate and blood pressure had dropped considerably. The combination of drugs delivered in high dosages within less than an hour's time had induced hypotension including an abnormal heartbeat and lowered breathing. He was teetering on the thin line between cardiac arrest and neural shock, and when neither of those came to pass, a coma seemed like the next possibility. He was unresponsive to stimuli, which Cassidy attributed to the heavy sedatives and John's high pain threshold, but all Sam could keep thinking was, _Not like this_. A war hero who had participated in over two hundred battles could not be bested by an _overdose_. Though, Herakles was inadvertently poisoned by his wife: Sometimes the greatest of men were toppled by the smallest of measures. Cassidy did her best to stabilize his vitals and began an IV program to flush the drugs out of his system. There were signs of improvement. They were small, but they were there. He just needed time. His saving grace was that he was a Spartan and a damn lucky, persevering one at that.

Sam realized Anya was watching her still, and she dropped her fists to her sides. "Does anyone else know?"

"Not yet. Hiro kept the intercom quiet and sent me just like you ordered."

She nodded shortly, tore open her gloves with her teeth, and removed them. Her team was anxious about having the Spartan onboard to the point of being superstitious as if the Roman god Mars had stowed away on their ship. She could understand their misgivings. She'd left on an intel mission and returned with the UNSC's most valuable asset. No one liked snags—especially not 400-pound, seven-feet-tall snags who could kill you in ways you'd never imagined. At least if they thought he was unconscious, they could revel in their false sense of security. All things considered, Anya appeared to be handling it well. The rest of her team would need to follow suit.

"Good," Sam muttered and unwrapped her hands next. "Has he said anything?"

"No," the redhead answered in the same, distanced tone while she plucked Sam's sweater off the floor and tossed it. "He just sits there and stares—like a machine."

Sam caught it with one hand and tugged it over her head. The thin knit was oversized and bore unattractive holes under the arms from wear, but it added bulk to her shape. She liked that. She slung the wrappings across her shoulder to be rolled later, smoothed the rogue strands sticking to her face back toward her ponytail, and headed out of the room. It was a storage space converted into their "gym" with barely enough area to place a punching bag, free weights, and a jump rope, but it's purpose wasn't for training—not explicitly anyway. The _Acheron_ had been her team's home away from home for weeks now. Given the cramped quarters and sporadic nature of their mission, they needed some way to let off steam and stave off boredom before they lunged at each other.

"Wake up Green," Sam ordered. "Get her on deck for a checkup."

"Yes, ma'am."

The lieutenant descended a level to the brig, which also doubled now as a makeshift infirmary. It hadn't been her idea, but it was the only room with a monitor that revealed the interior without needing someone to access the space. It was safer for her team and made them feel better to have the Master Chief separated from them by a layer of virtually impenetrable metal. Alighting the sloped platform, Sam discovered the narrow hallway crowded by two of her team members. Her features hardened subtly in aggravation, but the men were too engaged in their conversation to notice.

Within reach, Sam wondered sharply, "How are the files coming, Boone?"

A man with short brown hair snapped to attention, and Sam almost smiled—almost. Noah Boone was freshly chewed up and spit out of the UNSC's Office of Naval Intelligence, but not before spending some time in jail for accessing information well beyond his security clearance. He was charged with five counts. The actual number was exponentially larger, but he'd been tidier about his tracks in the first years. In fact, Sam had read the file, wondered at his sloppiness, and decided Boone had gotten bored or cocky. Both were dangerous for a man in his position. While quick to mete out punishment, ONI had conveniently overlooked his semi-photographic memory. Then again, he'd never confessed to having one. Boone kept his secrets and enjoyed unraveling others': Sam could appreciate that and use it to her advantage.

"Slowly, Lieutenant," he responded, "it's an alpha priority red encryption that automatically scrambles itself each half-cycle and—"

"You've got some work to do then," she interrupted shortly.

"Yes, ma'am." He stood straighter in place of a salute and withdrew to continue his work.

Sam was left to consider Hiro Takeda who she had charged with guarding the door and keeping an eye on their valuable cargo, discretely.

"I said no visitors," she reminded him with a sharp look.

Hiro plucked the toothpick from his mouth, clicked his tongue behind his teeth, and responded, "It's Boone. You can't keep anything from him."

He returned the toothpick and rolled the wood to a less worn spot where he continued chewing. Their resident ghost was disarmingly attractive with rich, dark eyes, black hair swept back from his face, and the type of wolfish smile that made men bristle and hide their daughters. Sam didn't know much about his early background other than he'd been born to a prestigious family in Japan and fifteen years later disowned by them. She imagined it had something to do with his authority issues and his penchant for sneaking into confidential areas—including up the wrong daughters' skirts.

"Back to Lieutenant Quinn," he commented, not sparing a glance down her sweaty, baggy clothes.

"Don't sound so disappointed," she returned and frowned, though the thought of the Marine who woke up in a storage container bound and half-naked aboard _Infinity_ threatened to turn her mood around. She wondered how long it took his friends to find him, before Hiro interrupted her thoughts.

"I like a woman in uniform." He met her gaze and smiled.

Sam's fingers twitched for want of her combat knife, but she ordered stiffly, "Open the door."

Hiro kept up his smile in a way that made Sam's insides feel twisted, but he reached to type in the codes and unlocked the door without further comment. He added a bit of muscle to help it open considering the old hinges, but Sam wasn't prepared for what the cabin door would uncover: the room in total darkness.

"What happened to the light?" she asked, and Hiro's smile fell as he glanced inside the confines.

"I don't know," he answered. "It's an old ship…"

Hadn't he checked the monitor since he called her? That was careless. Sam would reprimand him later, but for now she lifted her hand to silence him and motioned behind the cover of the door for him to pass her his Magnum. He'd laughed at her for insisting he wear it while guarding the Spartan—"If he doesn't go down by the rifle, what makes you think a pistol's going to help?"—but she wanted him armed and prepared for anything. Hiro handed it to her on full alert now, and she tucked it into the back of her pants where the tail of her sweater obscured it from sight. She had the sense she'd need an Ace up her sleeve.

She cautiously stepped inside the room. The light filtering in from the hallway was all she had, and it threw dense shadows across the space. It looked empty. They'd shackled him to the thin cot against the left wall, but from what her distorted vision could see, the cot was bare and the IV and heart rate monitor beside it were abandoned. She quieted her breath even as the adrenaline spiked through her and took another soundless step. The air felt charged and thick inside these walls. Something was about to spark. Her eyes probed the darkness, and she swore a shadow moved like lightening from the corner of her vision.

All at once the door slammed shut behind her, sending the room into complete blackness, and Sam was jerked back by one of her hand wraps now stretched across her throat. She'd forgotten about them hanging over her shoulder, but her reflexes were sharp. She'd managed to get her right hand under the fabric and held it, but it cut into the flesh of her palm and around her neck as he pulled tighter. She wasn't sure which would tear first—the fabric or her skin. She was smaller and weaker than him: She'd have to change those shortcomings into strengths. She twisted, her left leg slid behind his right, and she ducked under his arm while turning her head and pushing with her hand. It gave her just enough space to slip the fabric past her ear and over her head. Immediately she side kicked for his knee. Her defensive attack sliced through empty air and knocked over the heart rate monitor, and she let her momentum twist her back the opposite direction, her forearms rising to protect her face.

She was blind, she was already exhausted, and she was thrown into a fight with the best soldier the UNSC had ever manufactured. She should've stayed outside, but it was never her prerogative to stand aside. First, she needed to do something about her blindness: She reached behind her, picked up the IV pole, and swung through the blackness. It hit something, rattling up the metal into her bones as if she'd hit a brick wall, and she sprung forward to engage. She couldn't hide in the sparse room and couldn't give him the chance to overcome her, so she pushed herself past his reach where they'd grapple in close contact and where she might actually have half a shot. Her right fist flew forward, aiming blindly for a body shot, only to feel his forearm propel down and deflect the attack. Her teeth gritted as the pain flared up her bones. He could've snapped them both like twigs, and she thrust her knee toward his groin to test how human he was. He blocked her again. Did his superhuman abilities include night vision? Sam threw a series of powerful punches in close succession, thinking she could manage to land something, but he parried each one with mechanical precision. She suddenly felt like a dog chasing its tail. Why hadn't he retaliated? He could pulverize her like a pest under his heel, and yet he hadn't offered a single blow. Was he smoking her out to see what she could do? Well then…

Her left hook swung for his waist, he reached to block it, but her attack was a hoax. She caught his wrist and forearm and immediately ran, her feet kicked the wall, she flipped backward over his arm, and she held tightly to his wrist so that the torque extended all the way up his arm to his shoulder. There was no groan of pain. No sound at all. She rushed to curl his wrist behind his back and complete the attack, but his foot caught her behind her leg. Her knee collapsed, and she hissed at the stab of pain. He unraveled his arm, took her by the front of her sweater, and yanked. The thin material tore, but the momentum slingshot her across him and back where she tripped on the heart rate monitor and tumbled over her shoulder—and into the wall. Pain licked at her shoulder and dissolved into her chest. She forced herself to her feet, using the wall to orient herself and protect her six, and she faced the black of the room like she were beginning the maze all over again with nothing to show other than a bruised ego.

Hiro pried the door open finally, and the flush of light illuminated John's silhouette… right in front of her. In a flash, she drew the pistol from her back and pointed it at his shaded face.

"Back off!" she barked, her cheeks red with aggravation, but she recognized too late how her Ace was in fact her Achilles' heel.

He thrust her arms down in a blur of speed, the bullet pinged off the metal floor between his feet, and she yelped in pain as he tore the gun from her grip and partially dislocated her right wrist. His open palm thrust into her chest next, knocking the wind out of her, and she jerked back into the wall like whiplash. Her teeth rattled from the impact, and by the time her eyes burst open to react, she was staring down the barrel of her own gun and up into cool blue eyes. He'd disarmed and overpowered her in less than a second. She didn't know whether to be impressed or insulted.

"Sam!" Hiro called out in concern, his MA6 pointed for John's burly back.

"Stand down, Takeda!" she replied and stared straight up into the Spartan's calm face.

"Lieutenant—" he gasped.

"That's an order," she snapped.

The gun was a ready threat, but if John wanted her dead, he'd had his chance already. Hiro reluctantly lowered his weapon a few degrees but not completely.

"Who are you?" John asked.

Her left hand was instinctively lifted palm outward like this was a hold up, her right one hung limp at her side emitting sharp pains, but she abandoned the stance when she was sure their fight had stalled. John's gaze flickered to follow every minute movement.

"Relax," she muttered breathlessly. "I'm just fixing my wrist." Gritting her teeth, she took her hand, popped her wrist back into place, and held back a whimper when the pain flared and ebbed. It receded to a dull ache that could be cured with some medicine and babying of the weak joint, but thanks to him she wouldn't be able to work her hands again until her wrist felt strong enough. He didn't look the least bit contrite.

In fact, John was unmoving as a statue and disconcerting in that respect. She'd never seen someone so still and so charged, like he were a bundle of raw nerves twisted and primed to explode. His sheer size made her breath hitch, but every muscle and bone was perfectly proportioned so that he was both Herculean and agile. Hawkish awareness sharpened his blue eyes, and thin lines fanned out from the edges from years of squinting and frowning. His brow was similarly ridged in uneven rows that gave depth to his ghostly pale skin. Long lost freckles dotted his nose and forehead, but more prominent and enduring were the series of random scars scattered across his face, his neck—everywhere. Reddish brown hair was shorn neatly and beginning to grey at his temples, and stubble peppered his strong jaw. In another life he might have been handsome, but he had been manufactured for one purpose that couldn't be overlooked. He was a soldier, and he was lethal.

She pushed aside the apprehension growing in her gut and finally answered, "My name's Sam."

"Where am I?"

"Safe," she replied curtly. She was sore about having a gun to her face and held no intention of being compliant.

John's eyes narrowed—so subtle, and yet her stomach dropped.

Again, she ignored it and suggested, "You want to put the gun down so we can talk?"

There was a tense millisecond where neither moved. Then the Spartan eased the gun down. Sam wrapped her fingers around the barrel but kept their gazes locked where both were watching keenly for the slightest flicker of duplicity.

"You make my team nervous enough without a pistol," she said.

John released his hold, and Sam carefully moved the Magnum out of his grip. One small victory for her. She didn't need anyone to "accidentally" open fire on the Master Chief, but even disarmed he was a menacing sight. She'd have to trust her team to keep their heads calm.

She moved to step around him, and he intercepted, "We need to talk."

She considered his serious face, void of any real emotion, and assured him, "We will… but it's not even 5 AM, John. I usually like to have my coffee before someone tries to kill me."

His blunt gaze froze her, and she caught her tongue: He hadn't even begun to try and kill her.

"Come on," she said ruefully and led them from the room.

Hiro stood outside the door, armed and willing, and Sam shot him a reproving look to remind him of her previous order. The toothpick sank with his frown, but he stood aside.

Cassidy Green was poised at the other edge of the door with her medical kit in hand—and a pistol attached to her thigh. Medical assessments didn't usually involve weapons, but Sam knew everyone was on alert now that John was awake. Cassidy's golden hair seemed lackluster from weeks without the sun and had been hastily knotted at her neck though rogue coils sprung up at random to signal it hadn't even been brushed. The skin beneath her blue eyes was puffy and darkened slightly, hinting how little sleep she had gotten, but the sight of the Spartan ducking out of the door after Sam woke her up immediately.

She cleared her throat, considered Sam's ripped sweater hanging off her shoulder, and then John again. Cautiously, she wondered, "How are you feeling, Master Chief?"

"He's fine," Sam answered, a bitter tinge to her voice. At least he was fine enough to corner her and spar in the dark.

"Oh," Cassidy muttered and grappled briefly with how to proceed. She'd been called to do her job, and so she continued, "Chief, you may feel some side effects like fatigue, light-headedness, and shortness of breath. Your body needs rest and time to recover. I didn't expect you to be on your feet so soon…" Her hands fidgeted uneasily, and she finished, "I should check your heart rate and blood pressure just in case."

"That won't be necessary," John responded.

Cassidy blinked and hesitated, unsure what to say.

"Get some rest," Sam told her. "You have another two hours before your shift. I need you sharp."

Cassidy promptly answered, "Yes, ma'am."

"You too, Takeda."

The man nodded but didn't seem pleased.

Sam ignored it for the time being and guided the Spartan down the corridor and through the ship.

"I'd apologize for the restraints," she commented as they walked toward the mess hall. She fought a subtle limp: His boot to her leg had irritated an old would in her knee. She might need something stronger than coffee this morning. "But I'm more sorry we didn't use heavier ones."

John overlooked the remark and said, "You're not UNSC."

One corner of her lips hiccupped sarcastically. "What gave you that impression?" She dared to have a smart mouth when he didn't have her cornered in a black room.

"You're a rebel."

"Only when we have different enemies," she muttered, and they turned into the small mess hall occupied by a single table and an adjoining kitchen. Sam helped herself to two chipped mugs. The insides were stained yellow from years of serving the black, stout crap they called "coffee." It had been known to burn a hole through weak men's stomachs. Sam lived off it.

"You don't seem like a cream and sugar kind of a guy," she said and handed him a cup.

Despite having the room to themselves, John remained standing, took a sip, and didn't say a word.

She could see how some people mistook the Spartans for machines: They'd missed the crucial induction into social paradigms and acted with an almost cold disconnect. She leaned back against the table, sipped at her cup, and wondered, "Now… do you want to talk about me, or do you want to know what happened on _Infinity_?"

Without hesitation, John asked, "How did the Didact survive?"

His loyalty and trust blinded him. Some might call him a sucker for that, but Sam found it noble, if ill placed. For these reasons, she didn't sugarcoat it. "It didn't," she replied. "I told you it's the UNSC. They're the ones after you."

He paused, and she assumed that meant he'd been taken off guard. His expression didn't falter. "Why?"

"They're terminating the SPARTAN Program… That's the abridged version. The full text is a pretty complicated."

"I can follow."

She didn't doubt that he could, but she was sure he wouldn't like what he heard. She took a long sip, felt the coffee burn down her throat, and tried to find an appropriate starting point.

"I've been monitoring ONI and particularly the SPARTAN Program for some time now," she began and turned her mug idly in her hands. "Over the years, I've compiled hundreds of files and articles on the Spartans. Behind your numerous victories was an ugly truth that provided good propaganda for anti-UNSC supporters… Lately I've noticed a trend in reports that highlight this ugly side. Instead of focusing on the biochemical advances and the Spartan's military prowess, people are looking into the psychological ramifications of the program. Discussions range from PTSD, social anxiety, depression, and panic to insomnia, paranoia, and more—I mean all over the spectrum.

"There's an interest in what the program has _really_ churned out: superhuman soldiers or people stuffed with chemicals and pushed to their breaking point. Suddenly, it has become fashionable in the scientific community to see you as men and women and not machines." Sam paused, gathered her wits, and refocused her explanation: "Much of the initial dialogue was spearheaded by a Dr. Eduardo Ruiz, who would later be recruited as a psychological consultant and mental health advisor for the military. He's currently stationed onboard the _Infinity._"

She noticed an acute shift in John's demeanor, and she knew she'd hit a point.

"I'd stowed away to retrieve intel from his personal files when I stumbled onto something… There were a series of correspondences exchanged between Dr. Ruiz and a geneticist that looked like investigation into genetic markers for psychological disorders and humdrum research collaborations, but nestled inside…" She looked at John, and her hazel eyes glinted anxiously. "Inside, there was something else. I didn't even know what it was, the encryptions were top priority, which why would they need high-level encryptions for articles, data, and mail, and how would either doctor have access to that sort of clearance?

"I began to notice a pattern of repeated phrases, code words, within the correspondences but couldn't understand what they meant. What I did understand was that something big was going down onboard the _Infinity_—top-secret, alpha-priority big. I also noticed the files were sent within hours of your boarding _Infinity _after your mission." She lifted her eyebrows to mark how significant she found this. "I didn't think the connection was a coincidence. Something felt off... When I heard the alarm that there was an attack in the medical division—a Spartan gone ballistic—well, frankly, it all began to make sense."

For a full fifteen seconds, John said nothing, and though his attention was directed toward Sam, his gaze was unfocused. He was working through the information, finding the connections, and disputing the inconsistencies. At length, he challenged, "The Spartans are the backbone of every special operations mission in the UNSC, and you think the program is being terminated based on concerns about our mental health?"

"That's a huge oversimplification," Sam pointed out, "but yes."

"Eliminating the program would risk undoing decades of work, jeopardizing lives, and losing untold numbers in credits. That doesn't make sense."

"Actually," she countered, "it makes perfect sense. In the past few months, we've picked up whispers about a new pet project for ONI. None of my sources would confirm or deny it, which was a backwards confirmation in itself. We didn't look into it because it didn't seem relevant to our purpose at the time, but now it's obvious, isn't it?"

John granted her a hard stare, pressing her to spell it out.

"Dr. Halsey's disregard of the law coupled the Spartan's tenacity and skewed loyalty has created dissent within the military." She hesitated, pursed her lips, and quickly translated into layman's terms, "You've made some enemies high up the totem pole, and they've secretly been building a class of soldiers to replace the Spartans."

Immediately, John's thoughts turned to Colonel Ackerson who had unleashed a group of ODSTs and even a Skyhawk on him while he tested his MJOLNIR suit. He'd wanted John dead out of jealousy and hate for the Spartan program; would he feel any differently now? Were there others like him?

"But how do you replace the UNSC's greatest fighters—the defenders of humanity?" Sam continued, oblivious to John's musings. "You go after the head."

That refocused his attention, and the frown began gathering in his brow.

She returned his blunt look. "Dr. Halsey is under arrest, and now they're looking at you. You're the most famous, decorated Spartan in the history of the program. You're a legend, and you're not even dead… Not that that would benefit them much. Spartans never die: Your legacy would live on. No, they need to kill your credibility and that of the program that shaped you."

She bent toward him as her explanation hit its peak. "They'll look at the battles you've won, the enemies you've faced, the childhood you lost, and the deaths of your closest friends—one of which happened to be an AI…" Her gaze drilled into his as if to be sure it penetrated his augmented skull. "They're going to say you've had a mental breakdown. They're going to say you attacked all those people on the _Infinity_ in a blind rampage, and everyone's going to compare the research and your record and say, 'Of course he did. Look what he went through. Of course he broke.'

"The genius is that any attempt you make to clear yourself is disregarded as a symptom of your delirium, and the SPARTAN Program becomes the scapegoat."

"Why?" he asked, his face screwed up in a heavy scowl. The answer to that question evaded him even after her long-winded theory was explained. He didn't understand any of it. Nothing made sense or was obvious to him.

"In my opinion?" Sam asked rhetorically and glanced down at her coffee to avoid his severe look. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention. She focused on her answer and not him. "Creating a class of indestructible, superhuman warriors is every military's wet dream. They engineered ways to augment your bodies and make you something greater than humans: stronger, faster, smarter, better… In fact, the only problems were those lingering traces of humanity they couldn't quite wipe out." She glimpsed at him to check that he was following. "After the training and the augmentation procedures, they didn't anticipate that you would develop a mind of your own—to disobey and assume your own agenda if necessary, no matter if it benefited the UNSC or not. A super-soldier with a mind: now _that_'s dangerous. You've strayed too far, and you've become a liability, John."

He recalled Ex-Captain Andrew Del Rio who he'd directly disobeyed by refusing to relinquish Cortana, and neither Thomas Lasky nor Spartan-IV Sarah Palmer had arrested him for his insubordination. But he'd had a mission to do, and he needed Cortana to achieve that goal. Together they had saved Earth. They had won. Wasn't that serving the greater good? The last time he felt this blindsided and confused, he was six years old in a top-secret conference room on Reach and Dr. Halsey had told him he would defend humanity.

"I'd like permission to look at the files," he said. He'd find out for himself what truly happened on _Infinity_.

"You're welcome to what we have," Sam consented, "but we're still working on the encryptions. If you're any good with computer insurgency, maybe you can help decode the rest."

"I will."

She nodded approvingly to hear the determination concretizing his tone. He wouldn't cry; he wouldn't put his fist through a wall; he was a Spartan, and he would fight.

"Then you should see Noah Boone on the bridge. He's working with the files as we speak."

She took his mug, noting it had barely been touched during their conversation, and it had grown cold like hers. After a conversation like that, they were both wide awake, no caffeine required. She poured out the mugs and set them aside to be cleaned later, all the while aware that John hadn't moved.

"Lieutenant," he said abruptly, and Sam almost startled, caught herself, and turned to look at him. His serious, hard eyes hammered through her. "Thank you."

She tugged at the ragged edge of her sweater falling down her arm and settling in the crook of her elbow. It exposed her boney, slender shoulder and made her look fragile when she needed to appear strong. She wished she could've landed a punch to repay him for the torn garment, but then again, she'd just dealt him the biggest blow of all—the sucker punch he never saw coming.

"You're welcome, Chief…" she returned uncomfortably and tried to hide her unease. It was easier to deal with him when he acted like a machine. "Just go easy on my men. They've never met a Spartan before, and we don't usually help strangers."

"I'll keep that in mind," he agreed with a stiff nod and turned to find the bridge.

Sam watched after him and let the events of the morning sift through her. She should be relieved the Master Chief hadn't killed her and her team, she should be ecstatic that they had uncovered such a manipulative conspiracy scheme that could benefit their cause, but mostly she felt wary. She had waited fourteen years for this day, but after all that time running away, she had the sense she was arriving back on her past's doorstep. She didn't want to remember what lay behind it. Instead, she left the mess hall. She needed a shower and a change of clothes: She couldn't take on the UNSC half-cocked.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hey guys! I realize this was quite a dense chapter to wade through, but I needed to explain some crucial points. Things, of course, are never what they seem, so be prepared for more twists and unexpected complications to arise :)

Also, thank you to cew for the sweet review! You were so prompt and encouraging. I really appreciate the support, and it's a kick in the ass to keep me going ;) I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well! xoxo


	3. The Mission

Chapter 3  
"The Mission"

_"The best weapon against an enemy is another enemy." — Nietzsche_

He had slept over fourteen hours and been afforded the rare luxury of dreaming. In a black forest with a night full of stars and pale moon suspended overhead, he trekked for the rally point to rendezvous with his team. They had a mission to complete, another indomitable enemy they would topple, and John needed to lead as he always had. Then the howls began. A pack had tracked him for nearly a kilometer and now circled around, golden eyes glinting from the shadows, snouts nipping for the meal. They attacked all at once, their fangs gnashing at his flesh. For every one he evaded or threw off, another leapt at his exposed back. He took down three before he felt teeth pierce through the skin and muscle on his left leg. He tried to tear it off, heard it snarl, but another caught his arm. He was forced to his knees when he realized the woods around him were hollow and transparent like a curtain he could draw back. Beyond its filmy guise, he faced the angles of a long-forgotten room and Déjà's ghostly projection hovering nearby to pay tribute. A wolf took John's throat and dragged him down while its pack dove in for the kill, but John was looking into the small auditorium where a six-year-old boy with sharp blue eyes and messy auburn hair stared back.

He woke up.

O O O

"Let me see that again."

"Aye, sir."

The sound of keys taping underlined the incessant drone of machinery, low moans of the ship, and occasional beeps as navigation maps were updated around them. Ahead a single screen buzzed with numbers and letters, sifting and changing like sand through an hourglass, and the man—Noah Boone as Sam had indentified him—diligently retraced his steps and retrieved the sequence: a wall of impenetrable numbers and letters, and each half-cycle the tiles turned to another equally puzzling arrangement.

"It automatically scrambles itself," Boone said slowly, every word a cautious exchange with the Spartan.

Thus far Boone had been the only crewmember, aside from the Lieutenant, to speak to him though John wasn't ignorant to how the others filtered in and out of the bridge, all eyes and silent tongues. There was no glass wall separating him, but he was like a gorilla in a zoo: Everyone wanted a peek but none dared too close. He pretended not to notice when the young woman manning the navigation controls paused, glanced at John, and ruffed nervously at her short copper hair.

"I have to try and decode the encryption before the next half-cycle," Boone continued and eased back the slightest in his seat, surrender hanging heavy on his knotted brow, "or I'm back to square one. I've tried thousands of ciphers and codes and searched for back doors… It's like trying to outrun a tidal wave of encryptions. Within thirty seconds, everything is swamped and all progress is lost."

It was obvious to him that Boone was the only one with formal military training, or at the very least the freshest off the boat, given his cropped hair, automatic sharp responses, and the respect he immediately offered John. The others weren't rolling out the welcome mat.

_An AI_, John mused as his thoughts circled to the task at hand. It seemed the only thing capable of hacking and infiltrating quickly and efficiently enough to crack this code. He realized that whatever Sam had pulled, she had dug deep, probably deeper than she even knew.

"Is there any way to trick the system? Stall the cycle and buy us more time?"

They both turned to see the Lieutenant had joined them on deck, pieces of her brown hair damp and hanging limp down her face. The rest was pulled back in a messy ponytail that seemed her trait. The torn sweater had been abandoned, and in its place, thermals were layered whether to keep out the chill or to mask her skinny limbs. It was a wasted effort. John wondered how he hadn't shattered her arm or cracked her ribs. He had held back, but even then he tended to harm any who dared too close to him—except his own.

Sam met his blunt gaze and mirrored it with more audacity than bravery, leaving John to consider his growing mental file on the crew and their leader. Sam had military training if their escape from _Infinity_ had taught him anything, but her attitude had nothing in line with Boone's. A proper rebel, John imagined she had been scorned or had sold out to a higher investor. Much like the shroud of her clothes, her demeanor swallowed her and tucked away any further clues.

"It's a risky maneuver," Boone advised and swung back in his chair to face the screen. The encryptions somehow seemed to triple while his back was turned. By effect, he felt the swollen skin under his eyes sag lower. "It would destabilize the code. We could destroy the information inside before we ever touch it."

"It's a lot of effort to hide… whatever it is," the girl with short red hair muttered, glanced at John, and brusquely began typing with renewed purpose when she found his ice blue stare waiting.

No one but the Spartan seemed to catch what she had said since Sam reached over Boone and began attacking the code in a way Boone had already attempted multiple times. The man was smart enough not to say a word.

John didn't follow suit, wondering gruffly, "Where did you find this?"

"I told you," Sam answered and continued clicking away. "Ruiz's files."

"You think this is more… propaganda." He hesitated to say the word. His life, his career, his entire world boiled down to the rebel's propaganda. It was impossible even for him not to bristle.

"Something like that," she returned evasively and only paused in her typing to push a piece of hair from her face. She glimpsed John from the edges of her gaze, but her attention stuck on the sight awaiting her. One eyebrow cocked in amusement, tugging up a corner of her mouth as well. "You can relax, Chief. We're not the UNSC."

With each member of the bridge preoccupied about their tasks, John was stranded on the periphery neither engaged nor forgotten—simply stranded. His hands were clasped behind his back, his left wrist inside his right grip, his shoulders wide and squared, head held high in a stance that felt more natural and at ease to him than anything else. He didn't budge though his mind was an ant bed of calculations, thoughts, doubts, and strategies. What was unnerving was that no sarcastic, dry response replied with the correct answer. It was only him, and though nothing in him had changed since Cortana's death, he felt slower and less capable of finding those obscure connections. He needed an ally, someone to springboard ideas off of, but considering his had recently been reduced to rampancy, John had to hunt down those answers himself and sitting onboard this ship with a team of rebels wasn't helping him. All at once a burst of cabin fever struck him.

"When do we dock next?" he asked.

This caught the Lieutenant's attention once more, enough that she straightened from the keyboard and considered John straight on. "When I decide," she answered and immediately turned from the Spartan back to Boone, cutting off any further discussion. "Keep at it. I'm going to check in with Rodriguez."

"Yes, ma'am," Boone answered.

Sam was already making for the door, passing by John as if she didn't notice the six-foot-ten soldier taking up most of her cramped bridge's prime real estate. She kept up her act until John caught her in the hallway:

"Lieutenant."

The brunette stopped and twisted half-heartedly, revealing her face puckered with annoyance. "What?"

"I need to get on board _Infinity_."

"Oh really?" She snorted and shook her head. "You want to run back to the ship we _just _escaped from where hundreds of Marines and Spartans want your head on a silver platter?"

"I need answers."

"I was under the impression that's why I let you on my bridge to help Boone with the encryptions. You want answers? That's where you should start." She didn't wait to finish delivering her sentence before she turned again.

"How do you know?" he intercepted.

She halted, and though her back remained to him, he read the tension in her shoulders and arms and knew instantly there was more that she was hiding.

"I've looked at the correspondences between Ruiz and the geneticist and there's nothing substantial to suggest a conspiracy. You've baited me with circumstantial evidence to keep me prisoner for your own means."

"That's not true." The Lieutenant opened her body so that she could look back at the Spartan behind her without committing enough to the conversation to face him. "Entirely." His features hardened, the same look that made Sam's stomach recede two degrees too high, and she discovered time hadn't lessened its potency, to her dismay.

"What's inside the files?" he prodded.

"Everything."

It was a simple answer to a loaded question, but John was struck by the intensity of that one word and the severity it carried. No matter what was or wasn't hiding behind the wall of encryptions, Sam was convinced it was crucial to unlocking this mystery. John wasn't so easily assured, to be pacified by the word of a woman he didn't know existed forty-eight hours ago.

"Look," she said like she could read the apprehension in his silence, though his abnormally stoic features never betrayed a single thought. "We rendezvous with my commander soon. I need to report what I've found; my team needs a break; we need more supplies. I can't promise you an answer tomorrow, but I know I'm on the right track and I have the tools to help you."

The Master Chief didn't move in the slightest to give Sam a sign whether her words landed on deaf ears or not. She watched him all the same, maybe searching for the point where the Spartan ended and the man began, but the lines had been muddied in a lifetime of war.

"You're not a prisoner, John." She tilted her head and smirked. "You're one of us now—the enemy." Her smirk bloomed into a full-blown smile as she appraised him from toe to nose, seeming to savor his fall from grace like only a rebel could. "Welcome aboard, Chief."

O O O

"You understand the sensitivity of the information you've been handed, solider?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Vice Admiral Alexander Reaves exhaled stiffly, but it did little relieve the duty hanging heavy from his shoulders. He sunk under its weight when he bent to unlock one of the bottom drawers on his massive mahogany desk. "Some of my peers have reservations about my assigning you to this mission… Concerns about conflict of interests and skewed loyalties, all of which I know to be unfounded given your service record." Here, he paused, gaze darting to the soldier opposite him, and flexed his brow as if to invite the Spartan to correct him.

He was unmoving, so still not even his chest gave way to signal he was breathing.

Reaves frowned neither eased nor alarmed by his muteness. Still he withdrew a dense crystal decanter and matching tumbler, murmuring, "I'd offer you some, Lieutenant, but I've found the appeal is lost on you Spartans."

He said nothing.

The Vice Admiral cleared his throat and filled himself a generous cup, calmed by the quiet gurgle it emitted against an otherwise stark silence. He was not one to drink while on duty, but after the news that awoke him this morning, scotch kept him better company than coffee. He welcomed the first, biting sip and let it slide down his throat and settle in his belly before he continued.

"Now..." Reaves eased the glass onto his desk and looked past its edge to the Spartan. "You can imagine the political ramifications of this news, not only within the military but beyond. As soon as this leaks, it will be circulating on the news, the internet, you name it… It's not good. We lose our credibility, the public loses its hero, and _we _become the enemy. I can't allow that happen. I'm entrusting you to handle this and to do so discretely—discretion is of the utmost importance, Lieutenant. The future and the reputation of the UNSC are on your shoulders."

"Sir," he affirmed sharply. "I'll need a team."

"Yes. I assumed as much. Keep it to the bare minimum. Again, I remind you to be discrete. Only tell your team what is necessary to get the mission done. Understood?"

"Affirmative."

"Good… You'll report to me when you find something pertinent to the mission. Otherwise, your mission is to investigate and apprehend Spartan-117 in as timely and efficiently a manner as possible—whatever that may entail. Do you have any questions, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir."

"In that case… You're dismissed."

With a salute as crisp as the lines of his uniform, the Spartan turned on his heel and strode from the Vice Admiral's office. It was only when he reached the threshold that he hesitated, hearing Reaves acknowledge him from behind:

"Lieutenant." The Vice Admiral swirled his scotch absently in his hand and watched the dark amber liquid pitch closer and closer to the edge. Some deep intuition knotted up his stomach that he could neither explain nor express. Instead, he looked a final time to the Spartan and said, "Good luck."

Twenty minutes later, Lieutenant Junior Grade Frederic-104 skimmed the personnel files searching for the final addition to his team. Despite his normally diligent concentration, his thoughts drifted from the screen to the mission entrusted to him: capturing Spartan-117. John. It had been years since he had seen his old friend, but even in his absence, Fred had a lifetime of memories to remind him. John, who had been a best friend to him, a brother even, and a leader through the toughest missions the UNSC could throw at them. John, who would have sacrificed himself to protect any one of his men and whose men gladly would have done the same for him. Now John had come against an enemy he couldn't defeat: himself.

_How could it be you?_ Fred wondered and frowned as the question resonated in his mind to unearth all the impossibilities this implied. _You were always the strongest._

"I've completed my search through the personnel files provided," the AI Hypatia interrupted, and Fred's features sharpened to attention on Hypatia's avatar, the golden holographic figure draped in dense robes reminiscent of her Alexandrian namesake. "Based on the requirements and the members already chosen, I've found three possibilities for the final spot, Lieutenant."

The names, ranks, photos, and biographies of the three soldiers filed onto the screen.

"Let me see them side-by-side."

Immediately they rearranged to fit in tandem, neatly organized where Fred could compare every aspect of their files in a sweeping glance. No detail escaped his careful eye, and one notation in particular caught his interest.

"Bring up Spartan-B170's file."

The other two disappeared off screen, leaving the last one to enlarge:

_Name: Sasha  
__Tag: B170  
__Born: 2533, Draco Two  
__Recruited: 2539_

Fred scanned past the mundane biographical details and directly to her service record. As part of the SPARTAN-III Program, she had trained under Kurt-051, and evidently Fred's late colleague had taken an interest in Sasha's preparation from an early stage. He'd strongly recommended she be sent on reconnaissance in lieu of Operation: TORPEDO, counsel that had ultimately saved her life and allowed her to begin a long and illustrious career with the UNSC. Like the other candidates who had been suggested for this mission, Sasha had an impressive list of accolades, but this one rather significant recognition from Kurt set her apart from the rest.

"She'll round out the team," Fred decided without hesitation.

"Yes, sir," Hypatia answered, and Sasha's file disappeared along with the others. "With your permission, I'll notify them of the de-briefing."

"Permission granted."

"De-briefing scheduled for 0700 hours."

"Make it 0600," Fred corrected. "We can't afford to lose any time. We'll leave for _Infinity _at 0900 sharp. Notify Captain Lasky."

"Notifying team members and Captain Thomas Lasky, aye." Hypatia blinked, for the briefest moment distracted by these tasks, and then bowed her head as she asked, "Should I pull the files sent over from _Infinity_?"

"Yes. I'll begin with the surveillance footage."

While the AI carried out her orders, the files loading and decrypting with lightening speed, Fred was offered a rare pause in his duties, an opportunity to consider yet again what he was doing. For the second time since he left Vice Admiral Reaves' office, Fred thought of Kelly. If she weren't in another quadrant of the space system, he might have offered her a place on his team, but as it stood, he had been separated from his old comrades for a long, long time. Many went MIA during the Human-Covenant War, leaving those few who had survived to be dispersed throughout the far reaches of the UNSC. Never a day passed that Fred didn't think of them, however briefly. They were the closest things the Spartan had to a family. It felt wrong not to write Kelly when something this significant had happened to one of their own, even worse for Fred to be assigned the task of bringing John in.

_Better you than someone else_, he thought, steeling himself with the truth of those words. _You'll get him back in one piece_.

"Where do you want to start?" Hypatia asked and once more interrupted Fred's inward ramblings, but he was grateful for the reprieve. It was easier to occupy himself with the details of the mission than to consider the whole. He had to take it one piece at a time and worry about John when he got to him. Until then, he'd do his job. It was all that he could control.

"The initial fighting," Fred answered. "I want to see what triggered John—Spartan-117's outburst."

"Aye, sir."

A video clip was drawn into the center of the screen and enlarged to fill much of it though Fred could still see from the edges the tabs of related files, videos, and testimonies. The video quality was poor given the switch to emergency power. A passageway on screen flashed with warning lights, illuminating and fading every second, and at the edge two figures entered the shot from further down the hallway and squatted at the corner beneath the security camera.

"Pause it."

The image halted immediately.

"Where is this?"

"Starboard passageway, SPARTAN-IV Training Deck, outside the medical division."

"The files indicate that the conflict began inside the medical division."

"Yes. Spartan-117 was called for his physical and psych assessment when he turned on and attacked medical personnel."

"Where is that footage?"

Hypatia blinked again, and the ends of her robes came together where her hands might have clasped were they visible. It was such a natural habit it looked intuitive rather than learned and remained even while she scanned the files. On screen windows popped into view and were discarded from sight in a barrage of motion, so swift Fred barely had a moment to register the label on each tab. At last, all the files had been discarded only for Hypatia to pull them back on screen as she admitted, "It looks like it's missing, Lieutenant. There's no footage prior to this video in the passageway."

An oversight by ONI? Unlikely. Perhaps there had been a glitch in _Infinity_'s systems. Again, unlikely, but Fred noted he would ask Captain Lasky himself when he arrived onboard. There was no way to make the footage appear, so Fred moved forward with his preliminary investigation.

"I see… Replay the footage from the passageway. Enlarge the portion where Spartan-117 and his accomplice enter the screen."

"Aye aye."

Again, the footage streamed on screen, the grainy picture enlarged and cropped to show John and his accomplice ease into view. Fred bent forward instinctively in his seat, squinting to sharpen his focus with hawkish precision, and inspected each step the pair took.

"Stop. Play it again."

The video commenced once more, replaying the same seemingly uninteresting first seconds, but this time the Spartan knew what he was looking for.

"Stop." He turned his attention to the data pad in his hand where copies of the reports and testimonies were on hand for him to search at his leisure without Hypatia's interference. He appreciated the efficiency and convenience of an AI at times, but there was a certain command to using his own hands. "There's no mention that Spartan-117 was injured during the initial skirmish inside the medical division."

Hypatia blinked and straightened her neck. "No."

He looked to the paused image again where John was crouching beside his accomplice empty-handed, his knee resting against the wall and holding him steady. It wasn't right, and being that Fred held no footage of whatever passed within the medical division, he had no concrete evidence to prove his judgment.

_It would take a substantial blow to show on video_, he mused and decided, "Hypatia, make a note… Spartan-117 appears physically impaired as if injured. Need more information about original skirmish before making an accurate assessment."

"Aye, Lieutenant. Noted."

"Now," Fred said and switched his focus from his old friend to the figure beside him who was squatting and looking toward the adjoining passageway. "Resume. Play it frame-by-frame."

The image shifted little by little, the lines and shadows distorted by the flashing light, but Fred waited, searching each frame for the right moment.

"Stop," he snapped abruptly.

The video paused while she was in the midst of turning toward John. Her face was inadvertently facing straight to the camera.

"Enlarge. Focus on her face."

The AI zoomed in and centered on her face, cropping away the rest.

"Clean up the image."

Shadows and lines shifted as the brightness, contrast, and hues were adjusted. Lastly, the image was sharpened so that her features came into focus: dark brown hair, pale skin, oval face… Fred wrinkled his brow in thought, silent for a full ten seconds, but he could not produce a name to match her face. Even Spartans had limitations, and unfortunately, faces had never been one of Fred's strong suits.

"Run it through facial recognition," he commanded.

"Specifications?"

Given her uniform, he started with the obvious, "All Marines stationed onboard _Infinity_."

A green grid appeared on her face, mapping out her defining features, and instantly a stream of military photos shuffled alongside hers like cards in a deck. On and on they went, every passing second leaving Fred more and more restless.

At last, large red letters appeared on screen and declared:

_No Match_

"Facial recognition run through all known Marines aboard _Infinity_," Hypatia reported. "No match, sir."

The white scar cutting through his brow shuddered when Fred's frown deepened. He stared into her face, gauging the length of her nose, dimensions of her eyes, the shape of her chin… She was a stranger to him, yet somehow familiar like a glimpse in a crowd. It was too infinitesimal for Fred to grasp. "Widen the search pool to all crew members on _Infinity_."

"Widening the search pool…"

Again, the barrage of pictures that felt infinite to a man accustomed to Spartan speed. Fred clenched his jaw and waited, though he knew how it would end:

_No Match_

"Facial recognition run through all personnel aboard _Infinity_," Hypatia said. "No match still, sir."

Fred's features released, less at ease than withdrawn. Nothing about this made sense—not John's mental break, not the missing footage, not this mysterious accomplice.

"Hypatia," he began and finally tore his gaze away from the photo to the AI's gossamer avatar, "search again."

"Specifications, Lieutenant?"

"No specifications. Find her."

The AI scarcely hesitated before consenting, "Aye aye, sir."

Loose ends pestered him like a tick burrowing into his skin, but he brushed off the prickling between his shoulder blades and sat taller, deciding, "Let's get back to the footage."

Though the surveillance videos commenced on screen, Fred's attention strayed to the woman's face now perfectly etched into his memory.

_Who are you?_

O O O

"Lieutenant Quinn."

"Commander Castilla, can you hear me?"

"Quinn?"

"Commander."

The fuzzy picture onscreen sharpened all at once, the static crackled its last, and Lyra Castilla materialized from her station aboard the _Bellicose_. Her pale strawberry blonde hair was braided neatly away from her face where attractive features were worn with hard times and age. Her small blue eyes crinkled around the edges when she smiled and muttered, "Ah, I thought I'd lost you."

"Not yet, ma'am," Sam replied, struggling to withhold a smile of her own. After all, Lyra had been a mother and a leader to a young girl orphaned by war. This was the closest they had been to a reunion in months, and Sam stood taller as if proudly stretching herself to attention before the infamous Insurrectionist Commander. It was a wasted formality given the limitations of her camera, but she felt emboldened by the stance. "There's been a glitch in our COM system for about a week now. I'll have Rodriguez look at it when he gets done with the Pelican."

"Better sooner than later, Lieutenant. Flying blind is dangerous but so is flying deaf." Something distracted Lyra's attention away from the camera, and by the time she looked once more to Sam, her warm smile had fallen. Evidently they weren't sharing a private conversation. "How is your team?"

"Ready to come home," Sam answered evenly.

"And your 'cargo'?"

"Suspicious."

"Understandable. Have you taken measures to protect your team?"

"Of course." Everyone onboard the _Acheron _was armed, everyone except John. There was little else she could do except to sedate the Spartan and that option brought a whole array of new concerns and problems. In light of this, Sam added, "I don't think he's a threat to us—not right now anyway. The team's uneasy, though."

"No one likes snags, Lieutenant," Lyra reminded her.

"Especially not the Spartan kind."

"Especially not," she agreed and exhaled. "I'm told you're still on course to rendezvous with us in three days' time."

"As planned, ma'am."

"Lieutenant, you changed the plan when you brought him onboard."

Sam stiffened suddenly, her focus narrowing with misgivings, and she considered yet again who was sitting in on their conversation—a superior officer perhaps? After a cautious pause, she said, "We can use him."

"We could, but I don't think he's going to let anyone use him. He's too smart for that, and even if you don't feel that he is an immediate threat to your team, he's a danger to all of us."

A frown gathered bit by bit on Sam's brow, and she unconsciously looked toward the invisible bystander as if she could force him to appear as well. It would be easier to answer to him directly than to continue this charade of a conversation with Lyra any further.

"I can't let you meet us while he is still aboard," Lyra continued, oblivious it seemed to Sam's inner turmoil. "I can't risk my ship and my crew."

Sam's attention snapped back to Lyra whose poker face was in effect and betrayed nothing. She had the unsettling sensation that she had been flying blind this whole time, only she was too distracted to realize it. "We weren't followed from _Infinity_," she said stiffly. "Rodriguez disabled the tracking system in the Pelican. There's no way they could know where he is."

"He's a Spartan, Lieutenant. He sold his soul to the UNSC before he even knew there was another option. He's never going to turn on them. You know that." Lyra's gaze was hard as ice. "You put your entire team in jeopardy the minute you decided to take him."

"The mission was to gather intel on the SPARTAN Program to use against the UNSC. What they're doing to him… We can use this. This is the best evidence of the corruption and power play that rules the UNSC."

"Yes, this is powerful intel, better than anything else we have found up to this point—if, _if _you can prove this is some grand military conspiracy."

"I have proof—"

"You have a hunch and a hunk of files and emails and random pieces of information that may or may not support your claims," Lyra interrupted. "Have you considered the alternative?"

A wave of white-hot anger washed through her as she realized what was happening: Sam gritted her teeth rather than answer.

"Suppose he is mentally unstable. Think of the risk you've welcomed onto your ship…" Lyra shook her head and looked again to the mysterious bystander off camera. "You went far beyond the parameters of your mission and beyond the power of your rank. I can't give you special treatment. You have to be held accountable for your actions."

Her jaw ached with the force clamping down. Still Sam breathed deep through her nose and into her chest. Her heart was racing, her mind was buzzing, but her lips were sealed. She turned the situation over and over again only to recognize she had been cornered by her own initiative with no escape route that didn't involve undermining her entire operation. There was only one viable alternative. She swallowed a bitter mouthful of her pride and requested, "I'd like permission to look for proof."

"Sam…" Lyra's stern front cracked enough for the maternal warmth to seep into her voice. So her hands were bound too.

"I can take the Pelican with him. I can complete the mission, and the team can still meet up with you," Sam explained, stony and cold instead of bowing to Lyra's sympathy. "They've been out here long enough. Don't punish them for my mistake."

The Commander's clemency was short-lived for she gathered her wits quickly. The brief glimpse of a pleasant, loving woman was exchanged for the stern, unsmiling look of an Insurrectionist Commander. Somehow Sam felt more capable of facing that in this moment.

"What are really looking for, Sam?" Lyra asked quietly. "You can't change what happened."

"Proof, Commander. I want to finish what I started."

Lyra turned a weary eye to her silent companion and nodded as if to affirm a silent command. "If you continue, you will be acting of your own accord outside of our authority. Do you understand what this means, Lieutenant?"

"Yes." Sam held her breath steady even as her heart sprinted in her chest. "Takeda can lead in my absence."

"Very well. We'll send the updated coordinates for the rendezvous and anticipate that any further communication will be with Petty Officer Takeda." The Commander swallowed thickly and shot an unmistakable glare to her companion before turning to Sam once more. "Be careful. _Bellicose _out."

The COM channel cut out, the projected screen evaporating and leaving Sam to the company of her aging ship and absent crew. She had the foresight enough to clear the bridge before her conference with Lyra, and she was grateful for the space to breathe and silence to think. So much of her concentration was centered on the implications of what she had done that her body felt numb when she stumbled back and collapsed into the navigation chair. Her leaden head dropped between her shoulders and was caught in her palms. This mission had cost her time, energy, health, and sanity, and _now _she stubbornly gambled her future away on one man. He was the embodiment of everything she hated about the UNSC, and ironically his nosedive was the pinnacle of her life's work. She didn't know whether to put a gun to his head or to help him find the answers he so desperately needed.

_You're going to finish this, Sam,_ her mind answered like a beacon of clarity amidst the chaos inside her head. _You're going to get proof_. She eased her head out of her hands, strengthened by that assertive tone spelling out what she would do. _And then you're going to watch those bastards burn_.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hey guys! Long time, no update. I've been a bit swamped in these last couple of months, which kept me on an unintended hiatus. Of course then by the time I sat down to update, I forgot what I even meant to do next! Sigh... Not to worry now that I've made my handy dandy chapter-by-chapter plot outline. Hopefully this was worth the wait, and you all are still interested enough to see what happens :)

Thanks again to cew1088 for the review! I appreciate the feedback and am glad you think this is relevant to the existing Halo universe. I like to take a new spin on things but always keep them rooted in what's already there :) Hope you continue to read!


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